caps, sewing. Anna Akimovna met people on the stairs, but it
never entered her head that people might be rude to her. She was
no more afraid of peasants or workpeople, drunk or sober, than of
her acquaintances of the educated class.

There was no entry at No. 46; the door opened straight into the
kitchen. As a rule the dwellings of workmen and mechanics smell of
varnish, tar, hides, smoke, according to the occupation of the
tenant; the dwellings of persons of noble or official class who
have come to poverty may be known by a peculiar rancid, sour smell.
This disgusting smell enveloped Anna Akimovna on all sides, and as
yet she was only on the threshold. A man in a black coat, no doubt
Tchalikov himself, was sitting in a corner at the table with his
back to the door, and with him were five little girls. The eldest,
a broad-faced thin girl with a comb in her hair, looked about
fifteen, while the youngest, a chubby child with hair that stood
up like a hedge-hog, was not more than three. All the six were
eating. Near the stove stood a very thin little woman with a yellow
face, far gone in pregnancy. She was wearing a skirt and a white
blouse, and had an oven fork in her hand.

"I did not expect you to be so disobedient, Liza," the man was
saying reproachfully. "Fie, fie, for shame! Do you want papa to
whip you--eh?"

Seeing an unknown lady in the doorway, the thin woman started, and
put down the fork.

"Vassily Nikititch!" she cried, after a pause, in a hollow voice,
as though she could not believe her eyes.

The man looked round and jumped up. He was a flat-chested, bony man
with narrow shoulders and sunken temples. His eyes were small and
hollow with dark rings round them, he had a wide mouth, and a long
nose like a bird's beak--a little bit bent to the right. His beard
was parted in the middle, his moustache was shaven, and this made
him look more like a hired footman than a government clerk.

"Does Mr. Tchalikov live here?" asked Anna Akimovna.

"Yes, madam," Tchalikov answered severely, but immediately recognizing
Anna Akimovna, he cried: "Anna Akimovna!" and all at once he gasped
and clasped his hands as though in terrible alarm. "Benefactress!"

With a moan he ran to her, grunting inarticulately as though he
were paralyzed--there was cabbage on his beard and he smelt of
vodka--pressed his forehead to her muff, and seemed as though he
were in a swoon.

"Your hand, your holy hand!" he brought out breathless